Tuesday, March 29, 2011

The summers were full of screams and shouts of glee. Huge steel goliaths spinning and racing in blurs of color. The smell of pop-corn and pizza and dip and dots fragranting the the air. There were people having the time of their lives for a short while. They came from miles around just for a short bit of adrenaline fueled ecstasy.

Then a storm came, it blew its winds and and raged with rain and thunder and lightning and tidal waves. The people ran for their lives. They left the park behind. To rust, to get taken back into nature. Or so the story goes.

GenerationalsVictim of Trap (footage of abandoned six flags in New Orleans after Katrina)

Thursday, March 17, 2011

It has been a long quarter. I am ready for break. I am ready for isolation, for a very comfortable bed, for a very happy dog. I am broken, but not beaten. Just need a bit of time to lick my wounds and bring it all back together. I need a shift from stress to relaxation.

Don't let them tell you when the game is over, that's for you to decide.

Swim until you cannot any longer. Let the cold salty waves and warm air hit you. You realize its all a dream, and off you fly into the sky. The moon seems to be as big as a mountain from the clouds. Everything crystallizes; ossifies. The stars shine and sparkle in the sky. Down below is an island dotted with palm trees and white sand. There's a a shipwreck on the island's beach. Unexpectedly there are no people around the shipwreck, but there are penguins. They were the crew, and they are all safe and sound. They waddle across the white sand in the moonlight, watching the waves crash into the beach sweeping some of the shipwreck away into the ocean to become driftwood. From your vantage point in the sky you see the penguins exploring more of the island. A few of them come to a gathering of sleeping swans, but do not disturb them and continue on. Onward they waddle and waddle. They come to a cave, inside there are beds in rows: enough for each and every penguin. They all climb into the beds and drift off to sleep, eager to escape their exhaustion. And as they drift off to sleep they wonder what they'll discover on the island the next day.

The seasons beat down upon you, stress and work and worry. Sweat and worry, your hands they shake, shake like spindly spinnerets. In your right hand you hold a pen, but it will not contact the paper; the convulsing is too strong. The words won't come out right. You're not alright, you're not a-ok.

You shake and shake and shakeshiver, teeth a-chatter

Close your eyes, try to push it all away, it still won't stopShake, shake, shake, shakeTears they roll down from your eyes